Permanent
by HistoryLights
Summary: Mycroft has always been there for his little brother. Even when Sherlock didn't want him to be. With his brother now missing, Sherlock must learn how to stand by himself, without the one thing he thought would always be permanent. The Margaret Holmes Trilogy: Book Three.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Last time I checked, I wasn't Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gaitiss, or Stephen Moffat. In simple terms? ME DOES NOT OWN :D

Prologue part one- A Far Distant Memory

The fourteen year old peered around the room intently. He was on the hunt. He looked around, searching for something...anything that was out of place in the tiny space...

He looked to the toy box and frowned. Untouched. Every truck and crayon put neatly away. He looked to the closet. It too looked untouched but maybe... He narrowed his eyes.

He started toward it slowly, then stopped. He cocked his head to the side and listened. A slow smile spread across his lips. There... a small rustle from under the bed.

He changed his course and dropped in front of the bed. He reached his fingers underneath and when they ran into something soft, began to wiggle them back and forth.

A high pitch squeal met his ears and fully grinning he gently pulled a small boy from under the bed.

Mycroft Holmes picked up the giggling child and held him. The young Sherlock snuggled into his embrace and beamed up at him. "You found me Big Brother." he said.

Mycroft hugged his brother closer to him and laughed. "Of course I did Sherlock," he said. "I will always find you. No matter what."

Sherlock hugged his brother and gave a happy sigh. "You promise Mycroft?" he asked. The older boy smiled gently at him.

"Yes, Sherlock. I promise. Even if you don't want me to. I'll find you. That's what Brothers are for..."

"...ir..?" came the voice from beside him. Mycroft Holmes blinked out of his reverie and looked to his assistant. She was a tall, pretty woman with long dark brunette hair and deep brown eyes. She had glanced up from her phone- the one item that usually seemed to hold all of her attention- to stare in concern at her boss. Mycroft gave her a thin smile.

"And what shall I call you today my dear?" He asked. She raised an eyebrow at the blatant disregard for her question. Nonetheless she answered him.

"Well, I think I've become quite fond of 'Anthea' Sir," she said. "Are you ready to go Sir?" Mycroft sighed and looked to the sky.

It was a calm night. The sky was clear and the stars were shining brightly. A cool night breeze ruffled the two companions as they stood outside the unmarked car in front of his offices. The building stood dark and foreboding in the night; all other

Staring up at the tiny pinpricks, he allowed a fond smile to grace his lips. 'Anthea' grew more concern for her employer. "Sir?" she asked.

He replied without looking at her. "Sherlock did always enjoy watching the stars at night." A dry chuckle followed. "He loves the stars and yet, the structure of the solar system completely evades him."

Anthea opened her mouth in a silent "Oh". So that was what was wrong. She placed a manicured hand on her employers shoulder. "Are you having second thoughts sir?" she asked.

Mycroft looked at her then. And in his eyes, Anthea could see the cold determination he was known for smoldering. He had made up his mind and nothing was going to change it.

With his mouth set in a grim line, he opened the car door and slid in. Anthea followed solemnly.

Prologue/End

A/N: Hooray for new stories :D And for those of you who came here thinking this was TBC or DI...er...oops?


	2. Day one: Part I

The day had started out so normally for John Watson.

He was awoken at three o'clock am sharp by his flatmate playing...no excuse me...MURDERING the violin. After stumbling from his nice, warm bed, he trudged down the stairs into the living room. Glaring at the back of his best friend's (Who was either completely ignoring him or completely oblivious to John's obvious fury.) head, he made his way to the kitchen for a cup of the most wonderful substance in the world: coffee.

He flipped on the light and cringed at the disarray that littered the table and counters. He scanned briefly for any sign of the life giving substance but gave up with a quick resolve to do some cleaning after work when he spied what appeared to be a pinkish fungus growing near the refrigerator.

"Alright, Sherlock," he spoke up wearily. "Where have you hidden the coffee?"

The black haired man ceased his screeching and turned around to face John. He seemed surprised to see him standing there. 'So he _didn't_ notice me after all.' John thought with mild amusement.

"Good God John," Sherlock exclaimed upon examination of his friend "You look like hell. Why on earth are you up at this hour?"

John had long since given up on being incredulous with Sherlock's social courtesies. It wasn't that he wasn't aware of them. He most certainly knew of their existence, he just preferred to completely ignore them.

So when he stood there, completely doe-eyed, wondering why his flatmate was awake at... 3:26 in the morning; roughly five and a half hours before he was due for work at the surgery, John could only roll his eyes and reply,

"Oh you know, just decided I'd rather listen to a bloody violin concert instead of enjoying a relaxing sleep before work. And you?"

The light pink that dusted Sherlock's cheeks came as a surprise. John blinked. Unsure of what exactly he was seeing, he ignored it and waited for a response to his question.

"Forgive me, John." he said softly. "I seem to be doing that a lot recently. Apologizing I mean..." He turned to his previous position of staring out the window- he did not pick up the instrument again.

John sighed. He knew what Sherlock was talking about. And it made his heart ache to remember the three year he'd spent mourning the apparent death of his friend. Imagine his surprise when said friend turned up at his flat, decked out in a long brown trench coat, and a glorious false beard.

He shook his head to dislodge the memories. That was neither here nor there. He pursed his lips and asked again. "Coffee, Sherlock? I would like to be able to form coherent thoughts at _some_ point today."

Sherlock shrugged, indicating that he didn't have the slightest clue as to the whereabouts of the precious coffee.

John snorted; the tension from earlier dissolving quickly. For the time being anyway. "Right, well, bloody good detective you are Mate. Completely see why people want your help and all."

John could imagine the faint smile that would appear on Sherlock's face, if only briefly. He looked at his friend. Really looked at him. He could see how tired he was. His shoulders drooped slightly and if he wasn't mistaken, there was the slightest tremor in Sherlock's right hand-his bow hand.

He cleared his throat to get his attention. When the younger man glanced at him, he said, "And you? Trouble sleeping again?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked out the window once more. "Can't you feel it John?" he asked quietly, caressing the glass.

John stared at him, confused. "Sorry, feel what?" He answered the question with one of his own.

Sherlock didn't respond and continued to stare out at the darkened London street in front of the flat. John sighed, realizing that he wouldn't be getting anything else out of his flatmate at that moment. He pursed his lips and started back off toward his room.

"Right, well you have fun with that. I'm going to have another go at a snooze before work." He gave Sherlock a pointed glare. "If you aren't going to sleep, the least you could do is look for the damn coffee."

He walked off without waiting for a reply.

As he closes the door with a click, he shook his head fondly.

Yes, it was a normal morning.

~SH~

John signed for what seemed like the hundredth time. He rested his head back against the seat of the car, listening to the quiet hum of the engine. Anthea sat beside him, tapping away at her blackberry and ignoring him. She seemed agitated than normal.

John hadn't even made it two feet out of the door before the black unmarked car had pulled up in front of him. Giving a grunt of annoyance, he opened the door and slid in without a word.

The day was gray, windy. The promise of rain lurking behind the swollen clouds.

He was headed...somewhere. One never could quite tell with Mycroft Holmes. Only that it would dark and abandoned and relatively messy…

He was therefore pleasantly surprised when they pulled into a nice neighborhood near London. The houses were all large and neatly put together. All the lawns were neatly trimmed and watered, all very green. An expensive neighborhood then. His surprise mounted when they pulled up in front of the largest house alongside a police car with its lights flashing.

He looked at Anthea, who had gone very pale. Confusion was etched in his gaze. 

"Where are we then?" he asked as the two got out of the car. The brunette looked at him stoically and beckoned him to follow her.

Reluctantly, the ex-army doctor followed.

Chapter one/end


	3. Day one: Part II

Chapter two

A/N: Sorry for the long wait for this chapter :( I hope to get updates going fairly regularly once I catch up with all my other stories!

Once they entered the house, John was surprised to see Lestrade standing just inside the foyer.

The inside of the house was... bleak...at best. White walls without any pictures or personal effects surrounded them. Plush white carpets covered the floors. They looked as though they had recently been hoovered.

From where he stood in the doorway, John had a clear view of a pristine looking living room through the columns of the entryway. Again the room was nearly bare. The only things that gave any sign of life in the house and brought any color at all to the room was a red brick fireplace that smelled recently used and a black arm chair that lay overturned near it. On either side of the fireplace was a window with white shades.

Lestrade caught John's eye and walked over to him. The doctor didn't think he'd ever seen the man look so grim before, and he worked around dead bodies...and Sherlock!

"Morning, Doctor Watson." he greeted when he reached him. John nodded in return.

"Morning, Inspector. Any idea what the devil I'm doing here?" he asked, a sense of unknown dread descending on him. Lestrade sighed heavily.

"I'm not even sure what _I'm_ doing here Dr." he admitted tiredly.

"You are both here as witnesses." came a man's voice from behind.

They both turned to see a middle aged man dressed in dark gray dress slacks and a white button down dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up passed the elbow. He was hefty though most of his bulk seemed to come from muscle. His round boyish face held a grim smile. The look in his dark brown eyes could only be described as pitying.

Lestrade eyed the newcomer with distrust. "Really? And just who are you?" he asked.

The man laughed humorlessly and held our one of his massive hands. "Apologies," he said. "The name's Morrison. Richard Morrison. I'm the coroner for... well that's not important right now is it." Morrison shook both men's hands heartily, and they stood in silence for a few moments.

John was the first to break. "So... um... what are we witnesses for exactly?" he asked.

Morrison turned grim again. "Murder," he said tonelessly. "At least... we hope so..."

Both men stared at him at a loss for words. Finally, John choked out, "I-I'm s-sorry. _What?_"

"Are you saying you brought us here so we could watch you _kill_ someone?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

Morrison's eyes widened. "Good God no! That would be ghastly! And quite illegal if I'm not mistaken."

John glared at the man. "But you just said-"

"No no! What I meant was that we needed witnesses to affirm that a murder has indeed taken place!" The coroner explained hastily, his hands waving in defense.

Neither man looked very trusting at Morrison. The man sighed. "I understand your hesitance. And I can see that no one has told you anything about the situation." He stated. "But why would they? The higher up you go, the more secretive these people get!"

John was by now, more confused than ever. Who were 'they'? And what exactly did they what _him_ for? He glanced at Lestrade and saw that he too looked confused as hell. 'Well at least I'm not the only one,' he thought. Christ! It was like being with Sherlock!

His thoughts drifted briefly to his flatmate, wondering what he was doing right now before Morrison sighed again. "Why don't I just show you what I'm talking about hm?" he said and beckoned for them to follow him.

John and Lestrade looked at one another and shrugged. What choice did they have?

They followed Morrison out of they foyer and into the living room. There were a few other people in dark suits milling around and whispering to one another. The whispers were quiet and the only other sound was the soft clicking of a camera. The whole atmosphere held a distinct funeral like air.

Morrison led them to a spot near the fireplace where another man was taking pictures.

John and Lestrade stopped dead in their tracks and stared in horror and what lay before them.

And just what was it that caused these two city-hardened men, who'd seen the worst of humanity to stare in shock?

Oh nothing much. Save for the massive blood puddle, a little over a meter in length, seeping into the clean white carpets. The wall just behind it hadn't been spared either. Dying blood droplets dotted it all the way up to the window (which John noticed was locked) where a blood smear marred the sparkling glass.

John cleared his throat. He'd seen a lot of bloodshed in his life. And been to some pretty gruesome crime scenes with Sherlock... but this one felt... different...somehow...

"That's...blood." Lestrade said. Morrison raised an eyebrow at him as if to say "Duh?" Lestrade pursed his lips.

"Well, I mean... it's A LOT of blood." he said. John chimed in before the Detective Inspector- who had gone very pale all of a sudden- could embarrass himself further.

"It's human I take it?" he asked, switching into the 'detective's sidekick' mode. Morrison nodded stiffly. John furrowed his brow and thought while Lestrade stuttered beside him.

"All from one person?" Another nod.

"Does _he_ know that there's been a possible murder in his house? The D.I finally managed to choke out from suddenly dry throat. John gave Lestrade a look. Why was he acting so odd? He was usually a lot more helpful than this...

Morrison gave both men a hard stare. "We assume that he must, Detective Inspector. The blood you see before you, as well as the hand print- yes Dr. Watson that _is_ a print- on the window all come from him."

Lestrade's eyes went wide and if possible, he went whiter than he'd been before. He opened his mouth and closed it several times; several words coming out but none of them enough to form a coherent sentence.

"How... When... Why... What..." finally overcome with emotion, he shut his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. He breathed slowly and deeply, trying to regain control of himself.

John stood there, not understanding what the coroner had just said. "Sorry, but who are we talking about?" he asked, feeling like a complete idiot for having to do so. Though in his opinion, it was an honest question.

A small 'plip' was heard and he looked outside, past the bloody hand print, to see a water drop sliding slowly down the glass. It was soon joined by others. The promised rain had come...

Morrison looked at him again. The pity was back in his eyes. Around them, the sounds of the rain and the continued click of the camera as it captured every possible angle of the scene, combined together, creating a foreboding drone in his ears.

"The blood, Dr. Watson, belongs to the man who owns this house." Morrison said darkly.

Cold dread curled itself in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, the jacket he was wearing didn't seem warm enough...

"And exactly who owns this house, Dr. Morrison?" he asked slowly, almost instantly regretting the question as soon as it was past his lips.

"John." it was Lestrade who answered him this time. John turned to face him, trying not to be distracted by the flashing lights in his peripheral.

Lestrade looked terrible. He seemed to have aged at least a decade in just the past few minutes. He looked haggard and his eyes were tinged pink from having been squeezed together. The last time John had seen the man look this distraught had been at Sherlock's funeral.

"John," Lestrade said quietly. "the house belongs to Mycroft Holmes..."

Chapter two/end.


	4. Day one: Part III

A/N: Did I say regular Updates? I meant sporadically and uncertain updates that will take you by complete surprise when they happen :D

Chapter three

John was completely and utterly speechless. Oh sure Sherlock had rendered him "speechless" before. But he'd always come out of it with an "Amazing!" or a "Fantastic!". Now though, John had been rendered totally unable to utter a single syllable.

Around him, the room seemed to fade from existence. The camera still flashed and the officers still whispered but it all seemed like a dream to John. The kind dream you play specter instead of participant.

Jumbled thoughts ran rampant through the doctor's head, trying to piece together all of the parts to the puzzle to form one picture.

...blood...smear...struggle...Mycroft's DNA in blood...Mycroft's blood..._dear god_...

"Oh my god." John breathed in disbelief. He looked back and forth from Lestrade to Morrison. Shock written on his face. It wasn't true. This had to be a trick. "You think someone's murdered Mycroft Holmes?" he asked uncertainly.

All activity in the room halted to a sudden stop. Hearing the words out loud brought such a stillness that John could have sworn he was standing in a graveyard. He winced. _Bad _analogy. Lestrade coughed awkwardly and looked away from him. The rain echoed slightly as it bounced off of the tiled roof.

Guilt shimmered in Morrison's eyes. He cleared his throat softly. The sudden noise seemed to knock the room out of whatever stupor it's sunk into. Morrison sighed.

"We said, we _hoped_ that it was murder, Dr. Watson. That's very different from _thinking_ that it was murder-"

Lestrade interrupted angrily. "What more bloody evidence do you need?" he yelled. "Look at the state of this place! It looks like a bloody stampede of rhinos came through here! And the blood. If you hadn't noticed, it's bloody _everywhere_! It's enough to knock a person out cold if not kill them!" John had never heard such emotion in the Inspector's voice before. He was surprised to see the man was actually trembling.

"And why the _hell_ would you wish him dead?" Lestrade spat in the corner's face. "What kind of heartless bastard-" John laid a hand on Lestrade's shoulder The other officers were now staring opening at the group. More whispering- most likely about them now. Though he felt the Inspector was wholly justified in his rage, someone needed to be the voice of reason here...

Morrison held up his hand in defense. "Consider who we are speaking about Inspector," he pleaded. "Has Mr. Holmes ever explained what he does for this country?" Neither man had an answer.

"I figured not. Let's just say that Mr. Holmes is one of governments most important officials. He knows things about people, and this country that would destroy its very foundations." He looked at the two men, willing them to understand. "If Mycroft Holmes hasn't been killed; then we have a very big problem on our hands."

The room quieted again as the gravity of the situation settled over the occupants.

John cleared his throat. "Well," he started. "You've made yourself very clear Dr. Morrison." He glanced over at Lestrade. His companion's face was pale, his eyes dull. He raised a brow. He hadn't realized that Mycroft and Lestrade had been so close. He turned back to Morrison. "Why us though? Mycroft's got a brother you know. Sherlock Holmes? Maybe you've heard of him? Consulting Detective?"

Morrison gave the doctor an amused stare. "Of course we know about Mr. Holmes the younger. Unfortunately; it wasn't his his brother he asked for." John's confusion multiplied ten fold.

"What are you saying?" he asked, confusion and anger mixing together and bubbling over. "That you want _us_ to tell Sherlock that his older brother is probably-"

"Hopefully!" Morrison interjected. John glared at him.

"that his older brother has _hopefully_ been _murdered_ because if he hasn't, then the alternative is worse than we can even imagine." Morrison nodded once. John's eyes narrowed. "And this is what Mycroft wanted is it?" Lestrade said nothing. He stood still and stared numbly at the carpet.

Morrison nodded. "Yes, you two were specifically mentioned in his file as his witnesses." At the men's confused stare he explained. "Every high ranking official has one. If something... _unsavory_ happens to them, then two witnesses are required to verify the death of said official."

John felt suddenly exhausted. "Yes, well nice of him to let us know." Then again, Mycroft wasn't really one to explain his plans to John. Preferring to instead hide out in old factories and abandoned warehouses...

He pressed his fingers to his temples in an attempted to stave off a fast growing headache. "Right, are we done here?"

Morrison nodded. "Yes, Dr. Watson." he said. John nodded in return and turned to start back the way they'd come.

"Dr. Watson, wait." John turned back to the coroner who was digging through his pockets. Morrison pulled out his billfold and took out a white business card. He held the card out for John to take.

"Perhaps we could meet sometimes under more pleasant circumstances?"

John was sorely tempted to just walk away but for propriety's sake, he gave the coroner a tight smile and practically snatched the card from his hand. Without looking at it, he shoved it into his back pocket.

"Well, thanks for that." he said, turning his back on the entire room. Just before he left the room, he turned back one last time and ask,

"Just so we're clear, why _did_ Mycroft choose Lestrade and I over his own brother?" Morrison looked him steadily in the eye, his own guarded and replied,

"I don't know."

~SH~

John slid into the cab stoically. He told the driver his address and laid back against the padded leather seat. He thought about what he had just done and said.

Well truthfully, he wasn't actually thinking about Morrison, or Lestrade or the blood or even Mycroft.

No, the person who occupied his thoughts currently was Sherlock Holmes.

How was his brilliant, slightly sociopathic flatmate going to react when he learned that his brother might have been murdered?

He stared out the window, watching the the rain drops slid down the foggy glass, vague memories of Irene's death sifted through his head. Sad music and random outbursts of completely wrong deductions...

Then again, Irene hadn't really meant anything to Sherlock- well he didn't _think_ she did anyway. This was his own brother...

Then again, Sherlock and Mycroft had never really got on with. They were constantly at odds with one another over something; well anything really. Briefly he wondered at why that could possibly be. He'd never bothered to ask his enigmatic friend and Sherlock being, well , Sherlock had never divulged much of his past.

Honestly, John had no friggen clue how he would reacted to the news. With Sherlock, anything was literally possible. On the one hand, the two brothers seemingly despised one another yet when it came to personal matters, they would do anything for the other

'Unless it happens to be Moriarty.' John thought bitterly. But he had made up for it when he, unbeknownst to John at the time, had sneaked his brother out of the country with Molly's help. He had given him money to live on and made sure that he always had a safe place to stay where ever he went.

And Sherlock, whether he would admit to it or not, would always solve the crimes that Mycroft set before him. It was almost...touching in a way. Neither one, it seemed was able to show affection in the normal way, so they did it in the only way they knew how.

The cab jostled him slightly as it hit a pothole in the road. John shook himself out the his daze.

One thing still bothered him though. Why had Mycroft chosen _him_ of all people to be a witness? Lestrade he could see...sorta...since he was a detective inspector for Scotland Yard and as such had resources available to him that would be invaluable. Sherlock himself would have been the perfect choice for a situation like this.

But John? What was he good for? He was a doctor yes. But he required a body to be of any sort of use. All he'd seen at the crime was a massive blood puddle and a bloody-quite literally- hand print on the window. They might as well have given him a stick and told him to build Rome with it. Useless.

So why had he done it then? What was Mycroft playing at?

"We're here Sir." said the cabby, effectively cutting into John's jumbled thoughts. He blinked and and glanced owlishly out the window.

He was staring back up at 221 Baker Street.

"Sir?" asked the driver curiously. John shook his head and opened the door.

"Right," he said, stepping out of the car. "Um, how much do I owe you?" he asked, reaching for his wallet. The cabby waved it aside.

"Fare's already been paid. Someone by the name of "M" took care of it." John nodded silently, not even the slightest bit concerned about it. Must have been Anthea, he figured.

The ground beneath his feet crackled as he stepped away from the cab and it drove away. He looked up at the gloomy sky. Now dry for the time being.

He stopped just before he opened the door to the flat.

He was about to tell Sherlock, the only consulting detective in the world; Sherlock, who had one of the most brilliant minds in history but the personality of a small child. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend; that his brother could very well be dead...

He tried to squelch the guilt he felt at being the one to bring the news. It wasn't like he blamed himself or anything, after all, John hadn't been the one who killed the politician...

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

~SH~

Standing outside the door to 221B, John listened with baited breath for any sounds of movement from inside the flat. His hand rested on the door knob, poised at the ready.

'I'll just have to be blunt about it,' he thought. 'There's nothing else for it.' he took a deep breath and opened the door.

The flat looked basically the same as when he'd left that morning. Books and clothes strewn about. Empty Chinese take-our cartons laying about the floor and experiments bubbling away on the table in the coffeeless kitchen. John shook his head at the mess. They definitely needed to do some cleaning.

Making his way into the flat, he searched for being who was largely at fault for the hurricane.

"Sherlock?" he called. "I'm back..." he frowned and went into the living room. Perhaps he was still a the window, lost in thought.

He was about to cal out to him again when he spied him on the couch.

John blinked in surprise at the sight.

Sherlock was asleep.

A gentle smile crossed John's lips. 'And he said that he wasn't tired...' he thought in amusement.

The depressing piece of news sprang back up. John forced it firmly away and went down the hall to the detective's room. He grabbed a blanket off of his bed and wondered at the strange neatness of the room.

He made his way back to the living room, hoping that Sherlock hadn't woken up.

He hadn't, thank God. As John placed the blanket over him, Sherlock curled into its warmth and snuggled deeper into the couch. He sighed in complete contentment.

John knew that he should wake him but, somehow, it just didn't seem right to, with his features looking so innocent and peaceful. He sighed and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

He'd let him sleep for now... because he knew that when the latter woke, his friend probably wouldn't sleep again for a _long_ time...

Chapter three/End


	5. Day one: Part IV

Chapter four

Despite what John might have thought, Sherlock had not been sleeping as deeply as he appeared.

Truthfully, he'd collapsed on the couch nearly as soon as his flatmate had walked out the door. And gotten into the black unmarked car. And he had woken up as soon as he'd heard John's footsteps on the stairs, He could always tell when it was John. The man always walked with quick purposeful steps. Today though, there was something different.

John steps were still quick, still purposeful...yet there was a slight hesitation in them. It was almost as if he was afraid to come into the flat. Sherlock listened carefully just to be sure that he wasn't mistaken. For one, he was home far too early. By his estimate, the doctor had left approximately 2.8 hours ago for work and wasn't do home for another 7.2 hours still.

"Perhaps he's not well?" he thought as the door opened and closed.

"Sherlock?" John called out wearily. "I'm back." Sherlock didn't respond. He was more concerned with his friend's tone of voice.

'He's tired,' he thought. 'like he's been dealing with patients all day, but he's only been gone for close to three hours. He's sluggish and hesitant. The black car that picked him up today was obviously one of Mycroft's so I can only assume that whatever my brother said to him has left him upset and tired.'

He was about to call out to his friend when he felt something warm and soft cover him.

'A comforter, mine by the smell of it,' he thought as he unconsciously pulled it closer around himself. ' Whatever it is can wait I suppose. John doesn't seem all that worried about it, so it can't be all that important. Mycroft is probably just being a twat again, nothing new there...' he thought, drifting back off into a light slumber.

He was awoken several hours later by his mobile phone going off. He immediately sat up and pulled it from the table beside him.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, drowsily glancing out the window- nighttime; eight o'clock it looked like.

Lestrade's voice came across the other line, sounding more weary and exasperated than normal. He noticed a note sadness in it as well.

"I promised I wouldn't call today," he started. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical useless Yarders. "Especially given the news you've had today, but I really need your eyes on this case."

Sherlock frowned. News? What news? He hadn't spoken to John earlier. Bad idea?

"What kind of news Lestrade?" he asked, momentarily forgetting about the case. There was a pause on the other line.

"John hasn't told you yet?" The D.I. asked slowly. Sherlock was beginning to get annoyed.

"No, I was asleep when he came home. What news, _Inspector_, could potentially be so devastating that you felt that I wouldn't be able to work on a case?"

Silence met him on the other end once again. Finally, ever so quietly, Lestrade said, "Sherlock, Mycroft is dead..."

~SH~

John walked up the stairs for the second time that day. If at all possible, he was feeling even worse than he had been earlier.

He couldn't believe that he'd nearly forgotten to go on to work after Mycroft's!

How thankful was he that Sarah was so very understanding of the situation. All he'd had to say was "_Sherlock_" and she'd waved him on without a single question.

As it happens, it was a horribly boring day at the clinic anyway. And wasn't he thankful for that as well It gave him time to think about what he was suppose to tell Sherlock about his brother.

Now back at home for good that night, the same question bounced around his brain and still he'd come up with no satisfactory solution.

He sighed as he reached the door and noticed the light peeking underneath. 'Guess he's up then,' he thought. 'Probably absorbed in one of his many experiment.' he chuckled lightly as he turned the doorknob. 'Probably hasn't had a single bit to eat all day, knowing him.'

He walked into the flat and was surprised to see his flatmate sitting in his arm chair with his knees drawn up to his chest, hand folded as if he were praying.

To anyone who didn't know the detective well, their first thought would indeed be this. But to John, who counted himself among the privileged few who could call him their friend, knew that the only higher power that Sherlock was speaking to was that of his own mind.

On the table beside him lay his phone. A sinking feeling bubbled in his stomach.

"Um, hello," he said awkwardly. He got no response from the man on the couch. "And what have you done today?"

Without moving from his position, Sherlock said tonelessly, "I got up." John nodded.

"Right well, that was productive of you wasn't it?" he said sarcastically. He didn't miss the brief quirk at the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock said abruptly, " Lestrade has a case for us. Murder downtown. Sounded like a five but I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt. What did Mycroft want?" He opened his eyes fully and stared at his flatmate intently. John coughed nervously.

A case? Already? And he wasn't even going to ask how Sherlock had know he'd been at Mycroft's.

"Um, well you know..." he answered weakly. "The usual..." Sherlock nodded.

"And was there a lot of blood?" he asked. John nearly choked.

"Sorry, what?" he asked. He was seriously confused now. What was he talking about?

"Lestrade just called," Sherlock explained. "He told me. So was there a lot of blood?"

Lestrade. John had forgotten the inspector had been at the house as well.

"Sherlock I-" Sherlock raised an eyebrow which was much more effective than any look could possibly be.

"It's fine John." he said. His tone was low, almost empty like he was trying to sound disinterested in the whole thing.

The silence that now filled the flat was awkward. At least it was for John.

After about a minute of this, in which Sherlock had gone back to his "thinking" position, John pursed his lips and said, "So... Mycroft is dead... how are we feeling about that?"

Sherlock said nothing at first, but John could see a distinct tightening in his stance. Unnoticeable by an outsider.

"Not possible." he replied stiffly. The doctor felt an intense wave of sympathy for his friend.

"Sherlock..."

Said detective sprang up suddenly, grabbing his mobile and heading toward the door.

John blinked in surprise. "No, what? What are you doing? Sherlock?" he stuttered out.

"I don't have time for sentiments, John," he said, grabbing his coat. "I'm going to the crime scene." Without another word, he dashed out.

John stood, stunned momentarily, before racing to catch up.

"Sherlock wait!" he yelled. "Damn you and your ridiculous gazelle legs..."

~SH~

John felt his apprehension skyrocket as they neared the Big White House. The streets were quiet now. No police car were parked on the street. All the lights were dimmed and the rain had a last stopped its down pour. John couldn't help but feel like the whole thing was a bit eerie looking.

Sherlock had said nothing during the whole ride. He'd sat completely still throughout the whole thing, not even checking his plane obsessively like he normally would.

As the cab pulled to a stop in front of the ominous house, John heaved a heavy sigh.

He hadn't expected to be back here so soon. He glanced over at Sherlock. His face was unreadable. John got out and stared up at the drive way.

John paid the cabbie his fare and followed his flatmate. Gravel crunched beneath their feet

They got to the front door and stopped. They stood looking at the lock on the door for a second, then Sherlock knelt down and pulled out a wire from one of his many pockets. John looked at him, startled.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't look at him when he answered. "Picking the lock; obviously." John's startled look turned incredulous.

"You don't have a key?"

Sherlock looked embarrassed for a split second. " He tried to give me one once-"

"But you refused him right? Didn't need one huh?" John finished for him. Sherlock coughed sheepishly. John smirked.

"It didn't seem necessary at the time." Sherlock muttered and focused his attention back on the lock. "Besides," he said after a moment of silence. "This is much more fun."

John grinned and rolled his eyes. So predictable.

After several more moments of silence, the lock clicked opened; the sound loud in the quiet night. Sherlock stood up with a grunt and dusted himself off.

He gave John a "Brace Yourself" look before opening the door. He hesitated just the slightest bit, long enough for John to place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You don't have to do this, Sherlock," he said. 'There are other people who can do this-" he was cut off by Sherlock brushing his hand from his shoulder with a shrug. Without another word to John, he strode inside the house. John followed with a sigh.

The house was nearly pitch black. The only light was a few streams of moonlight coming from the gap in the curtain. Without the mirage of people bustling about, the place seemed...lonely, dejected... sad.

'Like a reflection of its owner I suppose.' John thought absently.

Instead of dwelling on that particular train of thought, he turned his attention back to Sherlock.

Said man was running his hands along the walls, muttering things to himself. John sincerely hoped he was looking for a light switch.

His hopes rang when he heard a small click and bright light flooded the room.

John surveyed the space. It looked much as it had that morning. Except there were no police officer and government agents crawling about and sifting through Mycroft's belongings. The doctor felt a tad indignant on his behalf. Somehow, it felt much more personal now that it was someone he knew personally.

He was saved from his absurd thoughts by a cough from Sherlock. The detective was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He couldn't stop the light pink that coated his face.

"What room was the body found in?" Sherlock asked. He was once again the cool, detached analytical detective. John turned and pointed to the next darkened room.

"There wasn't a body though." John said. Sherlock stared at him, a look of confusion on his face. He stared at John for a long time before John sighed. 

"C'mon, I'll show you." he started off toward the living room. Sherlock followed silently.

They got to the living room and flipped on the light on.

Immediately, Sherlock went into what John affectionately referred to as "Panther Mode". He stalked around the room slowly as a predator might stalk his prey. He ran his hand over objects, flipped them over and looked them over. Nothing escaped his careful gaze.

"This is where Mycroft spent most of his time," he said absently. He pointed at the spot where the chair had been standing earlier. Someone had taken it from the room and now even John could see the dents in the carpet from where the legs had been. "He sat here nearly every night. Contemplating. Thinking. Planning. The fire place has ashes in it. A fire has recently been put out."

He pointed to a spot by the window. "You said there was a lot of blood. That spot there, it's been cleaned. Scrubbed..." He mumbled off and began to pace the room again.

John left him to it and decided to examine the room again himself.

As Sherlock had stated, the room had indeed been ostentatiously scrubbed so that any blood that hadn't been collected for testing and sampling was no longer visible. The image though, was burned into his memory.

The stained carpet... the window with a bloody hand print... the chair; broken during an obvious struggle... the picture on the fireplace mantle...

Wait. Picture on the mantle? John did a double take and walked over to the mantle. Yep. There was definitely a white picture frame with a photo nestled behind the glass.

"Sherlock," he said, surprised that the detective hadn't noticed it before now. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I didn't think Mycroft was one for keeping...photographs...sentiment and all that."

Sherlock looked to where John was standing. He looked at the mantle and blinked, as if he too was seeing the frame for the first time.

He picked it up and examined it.

"The frame is new. Placed here over the last five hours, I think." At John's raised eyebrow, he sighed irritably and explained. "The dust John. It's undisturbed. This mantle hasn't been properly cleaned in weeks. The frame however is completely white. Not a trace of dust on it. There are no lines in the dust directly underneath that would indicate picking the frame up and placing it back down. No thumb or fingerprints on the frame or glass to even indicate that someone has touched it. At least, not long enough to leave their mark.

Mycroft did not put this frame here. Especially not one of-"

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and stared at he photo. Concerned, John looked at the picture to see just what had rendered his friend speechless.

It was a photo of Mycroft. He was standing in front of a church wearing a black tux. On his face was a smile and in his eyes, a brightness John wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. What was most surprising about the photo though was the woman standing next to him. She was wearing a white, gown-like dress and had such an expression of joy on her face that it made John's heart literally ache from seeing it.

Her hair was done up with white flowers and her make up made her pale blue eyes stand out sharply.

"Margaret." John whispered solemnly. "It's your brother's wife..."

Chapter four/end


	6. Day two: Part I

Chapter five

"Macwoft!" said the four year old impatiently.

His eleven year old brother was sitting in one of the big chairs in the their family library.

Previously, Mycroft had been enjoying a quiet afternoon reading his favorite book; while his baby brother took his afternoon nap. That had abruptly ended when Sherlock had come bouncing in out of his room (conveniently just down the hall from the library).

Normally, Mycroft didn't mind when his brother bothered him. The child showed a great deal of promise in the intellectual field and was at the age where curiosity reigned supreme. Naturally, Mycroft felt it was his duty as the elder of the two to impart all of the knowledge he could instill into the younger.

What he DID mind, however, was the constant stream of meaningless that constantly seemed to spew out of his brother's mouth at inconvenient intervals.

Like right now.

"Macwoft!" came the little voice again. Mycroft sighed in irritation.

"My name, Sherlock, is MYCROFT." he said, snapping his book shut. "M-Y-C-R-O-F-T. There is no "a" or "w" in it. And shouldn't you be taking a nap right now?"

Sherlock pouted for a split second. "I know that!" he said. "S'not my fault my mouth won't say it!"

Any annoyance Mycroft should have felt bled away instantly. He smiled warmly at the child leaning casually over the arm of the chair.

"Was there something you wanted, Sherlock?" he asked. Sherlock tilted his head in confusion.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You said my name- or something close to it- twice," he said patiently. "Is there something you needed Little Brother?"

Comprehension dawned on the small child. He leaned forward as he shook his head, midnight curls bouncing around his head adorably.

"No," he said. "I just wanted to say I love you."

Mycroft's eyes widened a fraction. He opened his mouth to reply but was stopped by the four year old leaning forward more and kissing him on the cheek.

"Night, Macwoft." Sherlock said, running out.

Mycroft sat still in his chair. After a minute of silence, in which he heard a door close in the distance, he smiled and sat back comfortably. Opening his book once more, he smiled, warmth blossoming in his chest.

~SH~

Sherlock opened his eyes at the pounding on the door. He sat on his bed in his customary "thinking" position. It had been some time since he'd searched his mind palace for _good_ memories of he and his brother; quite honestly he'd thought he'd deleted the lot of them.

He shook his head to dispel the last vestiges of the memory, finally focusing on the pounding.

"Yes, John," he drawled out lazily. "Come in."

The door opened and in entered his worried looking flatmate. Sherlock tried not to make it obvious that he was staring. He'd grown quite proficient at this over the years. Watching without actually watching the way John's red plaid button up shirt clung to his chest in just the right places, or how adorable each little worried crease in his face was. He tried not to let his mind stay on the image of his friend's broad shoulders or short but sturdy and reliable frame or his-

"Right, " said John, walking over to him. "You've been in this room all day. It's past noon now-"

"So?" Sherlock snipped. "Not enjoying your boring peace and quiet?" Noon was it? Not that he would have noticed since his curtains were closed and lamps turned on. He'd thought it was later than that. John rolled his eyes.

"Not when we've got an actual case on. Makes it a little hard to relax, you know, knowing there's a murderer somewhere out there." Sherlock scoffed.

"I told you before, that case was only a five at best. I'm sure Lestrade and his team of talking primates will work it out eventually-"

"Christ, Sherlock!" In a sudden fit of rage, the doctor grabbed his friend by the shoulders and gave him a hard shake.

Completely taken aback at the action, Sherlock blinked, wide eyed at him, speechless.

"Your. Brother. Is. Dead." John said, enunciating each word with a shake. "Mycroft is dead, Sherlock. Does that mean ANYTHING to you at all?"

Sherlock felt an icy coldness creep over him and settle in his chest, just over his nonexistent heart. The feeling started to constrict, creating a small tingle of pain. Sherlock shoved the feeling away forcefully. Irritated at the sudden emotion, he brushed John away angrily.

"Why are we talking about this again?" he asked. "I've told you already, John. It. Isn't. Possible." He looked John square in the eyes. "You just don't simply kill MYCROFT. It's impossible to kill the Government-"

John sighed, cutting Sherlock off. "Even if that were true, which I'm sure it's not. Governments die all of the time, Sherlock. Someone kills them, there'd never be any change in the world if they didn't." John gave Sherlock a sympathetic look. "Any despite what you may believe, your brother is just a man- a smart man sure- but a man all the same. Just you and me-"

Sherlock shoved John aside- much to both men's shock and confusion. But Sherlock could feel the icy feeling start to grip him again. He didn't like it. He wanted nothing to do with it.

After a moment or two of silence, John sighed again.

"Look," he said gently. "Why don't you try and get some sleep? You've obviously haven't all night- I can see the bags under your eyes." He turned and walked toward the door. "I'll be in the other room if...if you want to talk." 

Sherlock nodded, though he knew that John couldn't possibly see him. Unless, of course, the doctor happened to have eyes in the back of his head- which was an interesting, if irrational theory. His eyes lingered a moment too long on the his friend's arse.

He didn't quite trust his vocal cords to form the words he wanted right now. A strange lump seemed to have formed right in the middle of his throat.

~SH~

John paced around the living room, moving and shifting around the clutter and boxes.

Damn that man! Damn him and his refusal to accept emotions!

He growled angrily to himself. He could tell that Sherlock was feeling SOMETHING about Mycroft's death. He was sure of it. But whatever it was, was being deliberately buried, hidden away in some dark obscure corner of Sherlock's Mind Palace. Probably in the "To be deleted" file.

It hurt him to see his friend this way. He hadn't missed the pleading light, the detective's eyes held, as he tried to convince himself that it wasn't possible for his brother to be dead. He wanted so desperately to take him in his arms and assure him that everything was going to be okay. That this was just a horrible nightmare brought on by too much caffeine and sleep deprivation.

He knew about the stages of grief of course. He'd gone through them himself not three years prior. Had been talked through them multiple times by his therapist. Stage one: Denial.

He sighed. He knew the stages were shorter or longer depending on the person... but he couldn't help but worry how long Sherlock would be stuck in stage one...

In all his mad pacing, John had failed to the photo of Mycroft and Margaret sitting on the coffee table. He didn't know why they'd grabbed it, only that it didn't seem right to leave such a happy photograph in a place where something so tragic had happened. One misplaced brush sent the fragile frame flying.

John winced at the resulting crash. He checked briefly to see if Sherlock had heard it but the door to Sherlock's bedroom remained firmly closed. Well the detective probably HAD heard the crash, he was just too busy sulking to bother seeing what the cause was.

He shook his head fondly and knelt down to pick up the glass that now littered the carpet. Picking up the the photo, he gazed sadly at it. Mycroft looked so unlike himself in it. So happy and carefree, smiling in a way that John had never been privileged to see. And Margaret... John felt his eyes mist over.

He hadn't known Mycroft's wife all that well, having only met her briefly two or three times, but he knew that Sherlock and of course Mycroft, had thought the world of her and her disappearance had been a huge blow for the both of them.

He felt a small, barely noticeable dent in the back on the photo. It felt like writing.

He turned the picture over to see a note someone had written in small, neat cursive.

It read: "To Vivian, all my love,

Margaret.

P.S. Please give him a chance, I

Know you'll love him as much

as I do."

John raised an eyebrow. Vivian? Who the hell was Vivian?

Maybe Sherlock would know. He had known Margaret far better than he had. He looked again toward his flatmate's door, wondering whether or not he should disturb him. Sherlock needed time to process, he knew that. He looked back down at the note and stood back up, grimacing at the ominous creaking in his knees. He made his way back to the door and knocked lightly.

"What is it now?" Sherlock asked from behind the door. John let out a silent sigh of relief. It didn't sound like Sherlock was angry about earlier.

"Yes, um, you wouldn't happen to know who Vivian is would you?" he asked.

There was a noise from inside the room. Sherlock opened the door and stared at John as if he'd grown a separate head in the last ten minutes.

"Where did you hear that name?" he asked, eyes narrowing. John held up the photo.

"The back of the photograph?" he asked as if it were plainly obvious. Which, given that it was Sherlock, really should have been. The man in question blinked.

"Of course..." There was an odd inflection in his tone. "Obviously."

John gave him a look. "You did examine the photo, didn't you?"

Sherlock looked away, suddenly finding the door frame incredibly interesting. "Yes, of course I did, John." he said. "I must have just deemed the information completely irrelevant and deleted it."

John nodded slowly, unsure whether or not to believe him.

"Right, um... So who is she exactly?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "She's Margaret's younger sister who happens to hate Mycroft and I with a passion."

John blinked in surprise. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "What?" he said intelligently. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Sister, John," he repeated. "As in a female sibling? I believe you have one of your own."

John glared at him. "I know what a sister is, Smart ass. I just didn't know Margaret had one, thanks."

"Yes, well, you didn't know all that well I suppose," Sherlock said absently. "Are we done establishing the Bradshaw lineage or was there something else you wanted?"

Another look from the doctor. "You don't think that you should, I don't know, interview her or something? If this photo belongs to her, then she might know something." 

It was brief, but John swore he saw a note of surprise in Sherlock's eyes. Maybe John had pointed out something Sherlock had missed. That didn't happen often. In fact, it didn't EVER happen.

"You didn't consider that, didn't you?" he asked, a tad bit nervously. Sherlock scoffed angrily.

"Yes, of COURSE I did, John." he said. "It isn't important." John nodded. He definitely didn't believe him this time.

"Right." he said. "Well, I think I'll just pop on over myself, if you don't mind. See if I can find anything." It was nearly imperceptible and had it been anyone other than John, it would have gone unnoticed, but Sherlock looked rather relieved at being given an out.

The detective rolled his eyes. "Yes, well have fun with that, I'm going to take a nap." John grinned.

"No you're not," he said, turning around. "You're going to sit on your bed and sulk until I come home."

He imagined the slight pout on Sherlock face and had to stop himself from giggling. He was nearing the front door again when Sherlock stopped him.

"Oh and John?" he friend called. John turned his head to acknowledge him.

"Hm?"

"I wouldn't mention that you know Mycroft or I. I meant it when I said she hates us with a passion."

~SH~

After a brief check in the phone book, John discovered that a Miss Vivian Bradshaw lived just on the other side of Trafalgar Square. It was a beautiful day. The rain from yesterday had given way to a day of sun and warmth. Not too warm of course since it was England. The taxi ride took just over 10 minutes.

There was a wooden sign hanging on a pole out front that read, "BRADSHAW INTERIORS" in curly cursive. John had to squint in the sun just to make out the letters. The house it pointed to was small. It was brick faced with wooden panels on the open window. It looked rather inviting, he decided.

John took on last look at the sign before walking up the stone path, and ringing the doorbell. He waited for a minute or to and rung again. Maybe she was out? 'Or she wants to avoid someone...'

Another minute passed and just as he was about to give up and go back to Baker Street, he heard a voice from inside shout, "Just minute please."

A second later, the door opened and a woman appear. John raised an eyebrow.

The woman in front of him was small and pretty. She had long strawberry blonde hair pulled back from her heart shaped face with a dark blue, gold trimmed ribbed.

Her face was thin, her eyes, a deep brown. With an uncomfortable jolt, John realized he could have been looking at a reflection of of Margaret.

'Of course, you idiot.' he could almost hear Sherlock snarl. 'Sisters?'

The woman eyed him warily. " Can I help you, Sir?" she asked.

John cleared his throat. "Yes, um, are you Vivian Bradshaw?"

The woman gave him a look that clear said, "Duh, eegit."

"Yes," she said, dryly. "Who else would be answering my door?"

The tone in which she said this vaguely reminded John of a Queen lording over a very small, very dirty peasant boy.

He took a deep breath to calm his already rising temper. He already had to put up with this from Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Yes," he started calmly. "I need to speak with you."

"About...?" she said impatiently.

Thinking quickly, he said the first thing that came to his head so that she wold listen to him.

"Look, um, it's about your sister, Margaret."

Vivian Bradshaw stood in the doorway, her eyes wide in shock. After a second or two, she seemed to get her barrings and narrowed her eyes at him. John got the impression that she was sizing him up, measuring his weaknesses and deciding whether or not a simple plebeian like him was worth her time.

John figured she must have seen something she liked, because after a minute or so of being stared down, she held the door open with a reserved sigh and said, "Come on in, I'll put the kettle on."

Chapter five/end


End file.
